I caught myself listening once again to my own article, recorded in my own voice. An article that was meant to be a kind of confession to myself. Or not only to myself? In any case — the moment it transferred from my head to paper, it changed its character.
Were I to wrap this fact in a perfect excuse, I would name as the culprit that large amber bulb above my armchair. It is, after all, the much-named stage setting that conjured the scenery of the entire text. If only the fact that I am sitting in that armchair could so easily justify my thoughts. And if only that were enough. There is no déjà vu. Nor is this a chance situation. Quite the contrary. It is my own intention. The intention to return to where I cannot yet leave. I am, in fact, locked away inside my own text. Beneath the amber light.
I sit in the armchair with my laptop on my knees, which are partly concealed by the lower hem of a long shirt. It probably reaches that far thanks to having slipped down from my shoulders. It is accustomed to this. Bare shoulders are, after all, my own way of perceiving femininity. The softness, the combination of supple skin and white. They draw out an innocence, even if none happens to be there. I could claim the shirt slipped of its own accord, but the truth is that this is just as much a planned act, without any adequate excuse.
I simply feel right this way. And the moment the shirt returns to my shoulders with my movement, I subconsciously pull it back down. Perhaps my way of remaining sufficiently uncovered so that I might breathe freely. As a matter of fact, I cannot stand buttons fastened to the throat. Though this applies only to buttons.
Last week, I finally wrote my own text. Not that all the previous ones were not my own. But this text did not remain an essay opening a new theme — whether strategically, out of need, or out of feeling. Nor did it remain merely a letter standing in for a conversation. And it did not remain in last week, either.
Was I locked away by the need not to lose the feeling of closeness with the unicorn? Or by my own inward tremor, which signalled a voice now named? Did I finally allow myself to settle into the position of a writer and play the game of words?
I would miss him. I know that if I left today, I would already miss him.
I had thought that once I listened to the text, I would place it in a drawer marked „published”.
It did not happen.
The text did not detach. It did not leave. It left on my fingers that peculiar sensation that follows the touch of something fragile. Like holding a tiny ladybird in your palm and feeling its weight long after it has flown. A peculiar paradox, when the smallest things leave a touch behind. They reach into intimacy, and on the skin a place remains that we go on touching for a long while. Yes, one’s own text can be dangerous in a peculiar way. The essay ceased to behave like an essay. And a truer text, it seems, could not have been. Perhaps I was not locked away by the need to keep close to the unicorn alone. Perhaps I was locked away by the fear that I shall never again want less than I allowed myself.
The recording ended. The room fell silent and the amber light took it over. I drew the shirt up onto my shoulders and covered them.
„Thank you.”
Send.
With love,
Nicolette xx